


Burgeon

by Esuna



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 11:31:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9547280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esuna/pseuds/Esuna
Summary: Being a fumbling idiot is tricky.You crashed your stupid car, only to immediately humiliate yourself in front of Prince Noctis and the Crownsguard.You're now well aware of the fact that you've stumbled alone through your life thus far, and it's about time you found yourself some people to trust and rely on.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I've not played FFXV yet, but not playing a game has never stopped me from loving a character before. Hopefully I don't mess up all of the characters heehoo. Anyway, I'm Sunshine Trash.
> 
> Tags will be updated as I work on the story more. Criticism always welcomed!

You had never been a good driver.

 

The sound of the horn blaring in your ears wasn't bothering you any more. In fact, you'd grown accustomed to the shrieking as you sat and snivelled, knees tucked up to your chest. You had already done your crying, back when the adrenaline had slowly started to ease out of your system. You had laughed at first, using the heel of your palm to rub at your eyes. It was bizarre. You felt perfectly fine, just the occasional tear welling up before rolling lazily down your cheek. _I'm such an idiot_ , you had thought to yourself as you confused-laughed. _I could've died because I'm so stubborn and stupid and dumb_. There was no stopping the flood gates from opening after that, your confession not so gently reminding you that crashes could be fatal and you were a floundering buffoon. You curled up and yowled.

 

You had spent at least ten minutes sobbing and hiccuping, in a state of complete shock and panic. It wasn't a pretty cry either; it had been ugly and raw, tears and snot and all.

 

 _I've just_ _crashed._ _M_ _y fucking._ _C_ _ar_ _!_ And yet all you could think about was how pathetic you must have looked, sat in the dust and the dirt, bleeding from several cuts (you could taste copper in your mouth, confirming you had at least busted your lip) and whimpering. Your head was buzzing, and in some places it throbbed with dull pain. Occasionally you sniffed, and once or twice you had wiped snotty blood from your nose. Or was it bloody snot?

 

You don't exactly remember how it had happened. Something had darted across the road in front of you and your immediate reaction was _holy fuck, faster, go faster, get away,_ _bad thing right there_. It had been a decent plan, especially considering just how dangerous it was to be driving all alone. Then came the problem, and _that_ lay with your escape route; your brain had decided that straight off road and into the nearest rock was the way to go. Smart move.

 

Your wallowing wasn't helping honestly, but what else could you do? The sun was setting, your time frame for decisions growing shorter and shorter.

 

Great!

 

You swallow thickly, slowly stretching out your legs. You take a deep, steadying breath and push your hair out of your eyes. Okay, so the chance of dying alone without any one knowing was high! Really, really high, actually. But the fact there was a chance you could make it through the night was enough to spur you on—like hell you were giving up! And then it struck you right across the face like a sharp slap. Had you even checked to see if your car was actually dead? With wobbly legs, you attempted to stand. Sure, there had been smoke and the bonnet had crumpled like paper, but maybe the engine was intact. Once you were standing, you took a few test steps. There was a dull pain in the right side of your hip, but you could stomach it.

 

Waddling towards the door of the car, you pulled it open. A quiet whisper of “yikes” escaped you as you inspected the scene. Firstly, how the hell would you drive safely with glass all over the place? You didn't need any more cuts. Second, the air bag was definitely going to be a problem. Maybe you could _pop_ it?

 

You'd sort that out in a second. You decided to check the engine first.

 

With high hopes, and a lot of prayers, your hand reached for ignition before giving it a sharp twist. The car sputtered, rumbling desperately. You held the key in position for what felt like an eternity, though it was probably only ten or so seconds. The engine wheezed and choked before it gave up with a sound that could only be described as a long, dry fart.

 

“Well fuck you,” came your shriek of a response to such failure, lashing out with a kick at the tire. Unfortunately for you, you ended up taking the brunt of the damage as the sudden thump sent a jolt of pain up your leg to your hip. “You suck!” You weren't sure if you were talking about yourself, or your stupid wreck of a ride, but you would not give up in dishing out vehicular punishment! Smartly swapping legs, you began to punt the tire again, though a lot more gentle this time round.

 

In the middle of stringing together as many creative curses as you could, you heard a rumble in the distance. Looking up from your mechanical victim—fucking cars, you had never liked them—you glanced into the horizon. Lights moving towards you, at a decent speed too. Your heart soared out of your chest and you stomped away from the crash sight (ow, ow, ow) so you could wave your arms around at the side of the road.

 

“ _Heeey_! Hey, help!” Your voice was hoarse, and you were suddenly aware of how tired you were, thanks to the rage and adrenaline having left your system. Closer, closer came the car, and it slowed as it did so. You thank the Six as the car draws ever closer to a stop, and you wobble closer as you begin to explain.

 

“Oh man, thank goodness you stopped. Something ran out in front of my car and I swerved, but the road was- fuck!” Tripping over your own feet—curse your exhaustion—you stagger, flailing madly as you do, only to be caught in someone's arms as your fingers grasp onto the fabric of someone's shirt.

 

“Woah, slow down there,” came your saviour's voice and you laughed a little sheepishly as you stare at the floor in absolute, soul crushing shame. How had he managed to leap out the driver's seat so fast to save you from your own jelly legs?

 

“Sorry, I just-”

 

Another voice.

 

“Is she okay?”

 

“I'm-”

 

 _Another_.

 

“She's clearly not.”

 

“I just-”

 

And _another_.

 

“We should probably get her somewhere safe.”

 

Six, what the hell? Finally looking up, you seized up with a confused grunt, brows furrowing as heat crept up the back of your neck. Four men were staring back at you, expressions of varying levels of concern.

 

The one holding you up was tall, well built, with long, dark hair and a scar or two running down his face.

 

Another had fluffy blonde hair and, from what you could make out, bright blue eyes. He was bent over the edge of the car, as if he was ready to fling himself out at you should you need any more help.

 

The driver was a bespectacled man, watching you with concerned eyes that didn't even seem to be blinking as he regarded you. His hands didn't leave the wheel either, despite the fact the car wasn't even moving. Very much a cool and collected sort, you figured.

 

The final man was the one who caught you off guard the most, and you choked back a startled squeak as you took in his features. Was that _Prince Noctis_? Prince fucking Noctis, sat in a car with three other men, staring at you after you'd been a complete idiot, staggering about and cursing like a damn sailor.

 

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, _oh fuck_.

 

“I'm so sorry,” you stammered over your words, struggling to pull yourself upright against the scarred man, legs like wet noodles. “If I had known! It's- you're Prince Noctis, _ohh fu_ \- no! I mean, no that's not-”

 

A stifled snicker snapped you out of your incoherent rambling, an awkward attempt at patching up the offence you might have caused with your lack of respect and dignity. The blonde one is muffling his laughter with his fist, nose wrinkled as he struggles to contain his giggles. _Idiot, stupid; you look like a twit, pull it together._ Prince Noctis lifts his hands and smiles so slightly, you could've been imaging a shift in facial features.

 

“Please, it's just Noctis. Are you okay? Do you need help?”

 

You wanted to laugh and ask him if you looked like you were doing okay, but all you could do was stare at him helplessly, slightly slack jawed. _Just_ Noctis? The blonde spoke up after clearing his throat, clearly having gotten his quiet chuckles under control. “Noct, look at her! She's barely standing by herself. Gladio, get her in the car, we can't leave her out here alone. She's weak.”

 

 _Weak_. Your eyes begin to well up at his words, reminded of your embarrassing, pathetic little predicament. That was you! The weak idiot who messed up again and again. You search their faces again, sniffing deeply as you try to hold it together even as the beef cake tries to gently guide you closer to the car. _Don't cry_ , you scold yourself _. Please don't cry. Not in front of the fucking prince._

 

You realise too late that you've cracked, and there are those silly little tears again.

 

“Wh- hey, no! I'm sorry! Oh, geez, please, don't cry-”

 

The man holding you up scoffs. “Good job, Prompto.”

 

Prompto, you figure that's him anyway, reaches out to you, a gloved palm pressing against your upper arm and rubbing it bloody awkwardly as you snivel and knuckle at your eyes. “I didn't mean it like that! I don't mean you're _weak_ weak. I meant you're tired, you know? Like exhausted.”

 

“Smooth,” comes Noctis' voice, a teasing tone that earns him a confused scowl from Prompto.

 

“'M fine,” you say, though you feel far from it. You want to dig a hole and shove your head in it so you don't have to look at anyone or even recognise that there's life above your nice little dirt bunker. You wouldn't know where you ended, and crap began!

 

“Move over, Prom. Give the lady some space to sit down.”

 

The next thing you know, you're sat between Prompto and 'Gladio'. Obviously feeling guilty, taking the blame of making you blubber like a baby, the blonde man hasn't stopped rubbing your arm. He attempts to distract you with introductions “So, obviously you know Noctis. And then there's Gladiolus, the big guy.” He offers you a nod to confirm that, yes, his name is indeed Gladiolus. “And the guy driving is Ignis. We're gonna find a place to bunk down for the night, and Iggy here is going to take a look at your bumps and grazes. What, uh. What's your name? What happened to your _car_?”

You suck in a deep breath.

 

Well.

 

Might as well get _that_ explanation over and done with.

 

Before you can get into it though, you reach down to your bag so you can explain what you were travelling for when—hold on. Where is your bag? Your head whips around, your back twisting so you can stare at the wrecked car with wide eyes. The car that's getting further and further away, albeit slowly.

 

Oh. _Oh no_.

 

You act before you think, which is always a bad idea.

 

“Wait!” You practically shriek, and Ignis begins to slow the car, with a quirked brow most likely. Unfortunately, he's not quite quick enough to keep up with your instincts of _I need my shit_ , though that's probably because he didn't bet on you being _daft_ enough to clamber like a spider across the back of the vehicle, legs clumsy and wobbly, before barely managing to make an upright landing on the tarmac. “My bag,” you wheeze, wincing as your hip clicks uncomfortably with each staggering step you take towards your target.

 

You're pretty sure you can make it, your legs aren't failing you yet! You're doing it, despite all your injuries and that pounding headache, you're bloody well doing it and- _oh_.

 

Your jelly legs betray you and you stumble and free fall towards the road beneath.

 

At least, that's what should have happened. Thank the Six that one of the guys has a quick reaction time because one of them grasps you by the wrist, followed by a dizzying movement you don't quite understand that leaves you propped up against them. You only realise once you're motionless that you're struggling to gulp air into your lungs.

 

“Are you for real? Or are you just stupid?”

  
You groan as you realise who exactly is holding you. Great. Once again, Beefy McStrong is your saviour.

 


End file.
